When poets fall in love
Words become arrows aimed for the heart
Verses become scented roses and boxes of chocolates
Letters become diamond rings and expensive gifts
Their voices become like opium and intoxicating wine
Blinding their prey to whatever reality that may
But when they are vexed
Words become daggers aimed at the soul
Verses become skilled assassins of character
Their voices utter an army of harmful intent
With immortally damaging blows to the object of their wrath
They become as deadly as women scorned
Ten times so, if a she be the vexed composer
And yet our greatest deeds are best related in sonnets and prose
And our stories best told by he who holds our imagination
Such that our history is written not by men of action
But by he who would sing the tales of their deeds
Those who would remember us in whatever light they may
And thus mold our history to whatever machinations they may fancy
Fair warning then friends
Vex not the master of words
Least he be asked to pen your tale
We are only as great as those that would tell our stories
